


the sound of prey

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ window is open, and that’s invitation enough for Peter to climb on through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sound of prey

**Author's Note:**

> See endnote for warnings.

The day after the Alphas are run out of town, furious, a little worse for wear, mortified by the rag-tag bunch of teenagers and their little dog too, Peter decides it would be best for him to make his exit. The pack—and Scott’s sham of a second pack—have been grudgingly accepting of him while the Alphas were intent on making their lives unending misery, because the only thing worse than the devil you know, yadda yadda--Peter had more than enough trite adages when he was an English student in college, and now he’s surrounded by a bunch of teenagers who seem to believe they’ve _created_ the stuff.

He knows it won’t be long before they turn on him, Derek and Scott uniting in heartwarming teamwork to eradicate the Evil Uncle—Zombie Dog, Stiles calls him, which disappoints Peter, because Stiles has such a wealth of creativity that appears to have been forgotten for the obvious joke. For god’s sakes, there’s a Cujo joke just waiting for him—or there would be one if Stiles knew what Cujo was. He probably doesn’t. He’s rather distressingly young. They all are.

Peter waits a day for everyone to lick their wounds, for him to lick his own. He won’t inform Derek; the boy has a sense of responsibility and a stubborn streak a mile wide, and Peter knows, like as not, Derek would haunt his steps until one of them died from it. Instead he leaves Derek and his pups in their shell of a station, warmly reunited again, smelling of copper and antiseptic—Stiles’s doing, probably; they would have never thought to guard against infection, the three young ones sure they’re invincible, and Derek just not caring either way. 

The three pups are curled up like that, pups, and it reminds Peter of Derek when he was younger, all limbs and big green eyes, following his older siblings around like a shadow and trying to curl up with them whenever he was allowed. Now, of course, he keeps himself separate, curled into himself, choosing martyrdom over comfort every time. Peter doesn’t know where he got it from, masochism instead of rage. 

It makes him tired.

He packs light, that is to say, nothing. Ever since he lost his belongings in a fire—and his family, and his health, mustn’t forget those—he’s found himself rather uninterested in the material things, and everyone’s watching him closely enough it isn’t worth that hassle. A rented car, a tank full of gas, a plan consisting of nothing, really, but there’s a lot of open road, a pile of insurance money in his bank account, and nowhere worse for an Omega, at the moment, than Beacon Hills.

It’s impulse, stupid impulse, that leads him to drive past the Stilinskis’ house on the way far, far away, to put his car in park when he sees the empty driveway—Stiles’ jeep recently deceased due to events he must have had an interesting time explaining to his father. It would be best to leave without delay, but Stiles is still Peter’s biggest regret, Stiles who Peter didn’t bite that first night, or with his pulse beating beneath Peter’s teeth, Stiles who always smells like low-grade arousal and chalky stimulants, who can’t keep still or keep from running his mouth, who Peter would take a bite of if he could, Alpha or no.

Stiles’ window is wide open, because he’s stupid, a stupid, teenage boy, in the end, rampant with hormones, and Peter’s seen his nephew leave in the night, come back reeking of Stiles, but on the surface, like he’d pushed Stiles up against the wall and then neglected to _do_ anything with him, all self-control, martyrdom. Stupidity, because whatever he may think, Derek isn’t all that old himself.

Stiles’ window is open, and that’s invitation enough for Peter to climb on through. 

It smells like Stiles in his room, musky, teen boy sweat, unwashed laundry, that horrible aftershave he insists on using. And under it, arousal, thick, permeating everything. Peter remembers sixteen, remembers needing to get his hands on himself every time he was alone, though alone, for a wolf, is never quite the same—he’d get knowing looks no matter how he tried to hide it, and eventually he just blew past the shame.

Stiles, he knows, hasn’t. There’s a thin mist of air freshener, pungent, and a pair of boxer shorts crusted with semen are shoved into the bottom of his hamper, as if they might simply disappear, as if any wolf entering the room wouldn’t scent that out in a moment. Derek must drown in it. Probably likes it best that way, drowning instead of action.

Peter gathers that, all of it, before Stiles even notices him, on his front across an unmade bed, headphones on, bobbing his head—sadly arrhythmically—while he scribbles in a beat up notebook. He’s chewing on his lip. It’s a dreadful habit, but Peter finds it somewhat endearing.

Stiles doesn’t notice him until Peter’s already on the bed, and by the time he jerks his headphones out of his ears, Peter’s got Stiles’ chin between his thumb and index finger. Stiles freezes, then, deer in headlights, the utter cliché, and under the tension of muscles, Peter can feel the jackhammer of his heart.

“Stiles,” Peter says. “I would have hoped Derek had trained you better.”

Stiles still doesn’t move. It’s unlike him, so silent, so still, but people panic in different ways, Peter’s well aware. It’s not as fun as the chase, but that doesn’t make it boring. He slides his thumb up to Stiles’ bottom lip. His lips are a little dry—he licks his mouth too much, but it’s pleasing enough to watch to outweigh any drawbacks. 

“Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” Peter asks.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks. His mouth moves, scratchy soft, under Peter’s thumb. Not too frozen to speak, then, but Peter wouldn’t have him any other way. “You are really not as funny as you think you are.”

“Now Stiles,” Peter chides gently, rubs his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip and watches Stiles’ ears go red. Embarrassment and arousal and everything in between, all wafting from him. “It doesn’t do to be rude to your guests.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Operative word being _guests_. You’re just a creepy old guy who climbed into my window. And seriously, why couldn’t Scott have been bitten by a vampire? I’ve been reliably informed _they_ don’t enter houses without invitation. Plus more sparkling, less unsightly hair.”

Peter may have been in a coma for years, but even that isn’t enough to escape Twilight. He rolls his eyes. “Edward had no problem climbing into bedroom windows.”

“Things middle aged men should never know for a thousand, Alex,” Stiles retorts. Peter’s hand has moved to his cheek, and he shows no sign of noticing other than the continuing spread of a blush, the rabbitfast pace of his heart, the sound of prey.

“I’m only thirty-five,” Peter says. “Hardly middle aged.” Especially when the prime ones were given to coma. His hair’s already begun to thin in the back. It’s tragic.

“Um, thirty-five year old man in a sixteen year old’s bedroom,” Stiles says. “Still pretty fucking creepy.” He moves to jerk his face away, like he’s finally noticed Peter’s touch, but Peter tightens his grip, enough that Stiles flinches, stills. “What do you want,” he asks finally. It isn’t much of a question.

“I’m simply saying my goodbyes,” Peter says. 

“Good riddance,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, and Peter can’t help but smile.

“Tut,” he says lightly. “Is that any way to wish someone farewell?”

“Goodbye, au revoir, Auf Wiedersehen,” Stiles says. “Go away?”

“On one condition,” Peter says, lets go of Stiles’ jaw. Stiles immediately pulls back, rubs at his face. There’ll be a mark, a perfect thumbprint. Stiles will try to hide it, and fail, and wander all day reeking of Peter, and Derek will probably maul innocent passerby in his rage. It’s a shame Peter will miss it.

Peter leans in before Stiles can answer, thumb on his chin again, lighter this time, merely guiding as he brushes his lips against Stiles’, barely a kiss at all, before Stiles jerks back, hard, nearly falls of his bed in his rush. 

He’s heard Stiles and Scott talking, Stiles continuing to bemoan his virginal state, the likelihood of his dying a virgin, surrounded by hot, supernatural beings who never notice him. Die unkissed, even, a tragic fate, and one that may well happen, at the pace his nephew moves, at the disemboweling anyone who attempts at Stiles will receive. That Peter will, if Derek ever finds out, but he suspects this will be a secret that Stiles will keep. Losing your first kiss to a monster is the sort of thing Stiles would be intent to hide.

Stiles’ chest is heaving, fast, like he’s just run for his life again. “What— “ he manages, licks over his lips, like he has no idea what he looks like. He has no idea what he looks like. It’s such a shame.

Peter simply tips a smile at him, the one he knows terrifies. Stiles shivers, shudders, Peter can’t tell which. He suspects Stiles can’t either. It’s a good thought to leave on, just about the only good thought left in this forsaken town. 

“Adieu,” he says, and leaves Stiles panting in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Non-consensual proximity, touching, and a non-consensual kiss. Peter's just gotta be Peter.


End file.
